


Weekend Plans

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Baking, Bottom Greg Lestrade, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, M/M, PWP, Tenderness, Top Mycroft, playfulness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 20:05:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12689307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Greg has the weekend free. By some miracle, so does Mycroft. For the first time they spend it together in Mycroft's fancy Kensington flat - and explore a few other firsts as well.





	Weekend Plans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheRedheadinQuestion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedheadinQuestion/gifts).



The first weekend together comes out of nowhere.

Through a number of tiny miracles, the clockwork of the universe seems to shift as one on their behalf - arranging, rearranging, moving one commitment, postponing another - until, with enormous surprise, they discover by text on Friday morning that neither is occupied with anything at all until Monday.

They decide to change that straightaway.

Greg goes home only briefly after work. He packs clean pants and a toothbrush, picks up a few DVDs that Mycroft hasn’t seen, and drives over to Kensington.

Mycroft’s apartment is huge, and it’s gorgeous, and classy as hell. Greg feels like a scruff almost as soon as he walks through the door. The tour doesn’t help the feeling - all chandeliers and wine cellars - but when it concludes in the lounge, and the weekend finally begins with Mycroft throwing Greg across a sofa, Greg suddenly feels a lot more at home here.

He’s wanted this sort of time together for weeks. From the way Mycroft’s kissing him, gripping him and groaning, the feeling is entirely mutual.

Afterwards, they lie in a dishevelled pile of their clothing on the floor, panting and flushed. Greg can’t stop grinning. Mycroft leans over his chest, slowly scruffs up his hair, and enquires with lazily sparkling eyes whether Chinese food suits.

Greg decides at once that he likes weekends with Mycroft.

Friday evening and the night pass in a rippling haze - laughing, talking until two AM about everything in the world, playing and fucking. When they can’t fuck any more, they just hold each other and kiss. They sleep late, then cook brunch together. After a few lazily-watched films, cuddled naked in Mycroft’s bed with the widescreen TV that just rises out of the headboard like in some futuristic hotel, their hands start wandering again.

Greg’s sure he won’t be able to - they’ve spent the night having sex like they’re horny students, tearing into each other as if their combined age isn’t scarily close to ninety - but then Mycroft’s reaching gentle fingers between his thighs, stroking places that Greg's never let any of his previous guys go. He’s shocked to realise the feeling doesn’t scare him. He wants it. First weekend, and he loves it here - he loves Mycroft’s company. He loves Mycroft’s touch. He decides that if there’s a first time for anything, it’s right here and right now.

Mycroft is gentle - utterly gentle. Greg can’t be sure how long he takes just relaxing Greg with those long, dexterous fingers, opening him slowly and slickly with them, but by the time he’s easing them out, Greg’s quite sure he’ll die if Mycroft _doesn’t_ immediately fuck him.

The first few minutes aren’t comfortable, and people were right that it hurts - but Mycroft’s weight on top of him feels good enough to keep going. The voice in his ear fills him with little shivers - a voice that’s low, and soft, and roughened with desire, and full of care: “Bear down, Greg… breathe with me. Tell me if you want to stop.”

Greg’s never heard Mycroft sound like that. He’d never heard _anyone_ sound like that. The discomfort only makes him realise how much trust he’s just placed into Mycroft’s hands - and how safe he is here - and, though it aches, he realises that he isn’t afraid.

It begins to feel good when Mycroft starts to move. Lots of lube, lots of soft reassurance, and Greg relaxes into Mycroft’s gentle kisses. He tells himself he doesn’t need to think about coming. It’s okay just to feel this. Enjoy it.

And _fuck,_ he’s starting to enjoy it.

The ache that initially made him twitch with discomfort is now a deep, satisfying stretch, and the rhythmic slide of Mycroft’s cock in and out of his body is making Greg shake slightly, making him blush. He feels _fucked_ \- and he likes it. It feels good to have his thighs apart and a lover in between them. Having him. _Fucking him._ He feels open, and he feels vulnerable - but he knows he's safe.

Mycroft’s sounds are doing everything for him. Soft moans, desperate shudders. Greg realises his lover is biting his lip, sheathing himself slowly over and over inside Greg, and that’s the first moment Greg wonders if he might just come after all. Tentatively he guides Mycroft’s hand to his cock - knowing he could just do this for himself, but wanting Mycroft’s touch instead - wanting those long and loving fingers - and as Mycroft pulls him gently in rhythm, the fucking starts to feel so good that Greg wants to cry out. It’s all he can do to grip the sheets and bite down on it. Mycroft’s reaching somewhere that makes pleasure radiate outwards through his whole body, and it’s not coming from his cock. It’s from deeper in. It’s from somewhere near the small of his spine, somewhere dark and primal that doesn’t give him the sharp, easy shocks of pleasure that he usually feels in his prick. This is something very different.

And it’s building - _slowly._ It’s rising, flicker-by-flicker, coiling through him almost lazily and stretching out through every part of him and _aching_ with enjoyment, and Greg realises now why it takes a while for Mycroft to start making sound during sex. He’s realising why Mycroft leaves claw-marks down his back, too.

He screws his head back into Mycroft’s pillows and pants with it, trembling, and some barrier of inhibition suddenly breaks. He hears himself start gasping all kinds of fucking nonsense - begging Mycroft to stay inside him forever - but he’s powerless to stop himself as pleasure and need come pouring out of his mouth in desperation. Mycroft drinks every word of it, adoring him, groaning tenderness in his ear. Crooning to him; soothing him. Whispering to him, promising him he’ll come soon.

Greg believes him.

In this moment, he’d trust Mycroft with every decision - every power over him - every secret. He grips the mattress hard and lets go of all the rest to his lover, letting Mycroft build this feeling for him, letting Mycroft’s prick give him everything he needs. The steady stroking of his cock is just background - a soft white fuzz of familiar pleasure - a thread he can follow towards orgasm.

And when he comes, it rips him into pieces. He comes like the sheer force of this feeling is going to blow him and the rest of the world apart, in one aching rush of thunder and fire, and Greg feels his entire body come - not just his cock. He comes in his back, and in his shoulders, and he comes in shivers across his scalp, coming with his mouth as it opens wide and lets out the restless cries he can’t restrain any longer, coming down the front of his chest and in his stomach muscles as they tighten and quiver, coming in his inner thighs as they shake - coming in desperation around Mycroft’s cock. He arches and calls out and  _writhes_ with it, panting with it, pleading. As it all starts to subside, pounding in every last piece of him, he finds his hands gripping at Mycroft’s arse - pulling him in deep - and he can’t remember when he did that.

Mycroft shakes on top of him, staring down into Greg’s face.

“Are you alright?” he breathes. Mycroft’s pupils are enormous. He’s on the brink. Greg can feel it in the tremor that's running just beneath his sweat-filmed skin.

Greg swallows, and drags in a breath of air that feels brand new.

“Fuck me,” he whispers. “Do it. Come in me. Come inside me right now.”

Mycroft shudders to the soul. He nuzzles into Greg’s neck, and gently begins to move again.

Greg rests his lower hands on Mycroft’s back, and simply feels it - the rise-and-fall - the slow, steady rocking as Mycroft fucks him. He finds Mycroft’s ear close to his mouth, and takes advantage of this, licking and nipping at it gently. Feeling filthy and post-coital, he starts whispering into it all kinds of things - begging Mycroft to give him it - whimpering a little that he wants it - _fuck me, baby. Fill me with your prick. Enjoy me. Fucking have me, Mycroft. M'yours right now. All yours._

As Mycroft’s breath cracks, and his groans tighten suddenly into gasps, Greg curls with contentment around him - holds him, moaning his orgasm back to him - and Mycroft shakes, and heaves, and comes in floods inside him.

Greg won’t forget it as long as he lives.

Almost an hour later - when they’re finally capable of walking further than just the bathroom - a strange want arises in Greg. He can’t explain it, even to himself. It just appeals.

He tells Mycroft, grinning slightly - expecting to be given an odd look in response.

But Mycroft seems delighted. His eyes shine at the suggestion, and he smiles, agreeing without a moment’s thought.

And so - still basking in his afterglow, largely undressed, and feeling so fucked that it’s affecting his every movement - Greg finds himself in Mycroft’s kitchen, with Mycroft, making fork biscuits.

Butter, sugar, and self-raising flour. Greg’s been making these for years. A flatmate taught him at university, and it’s the easiest recipe he knows off the top of his head. He beats the butter to soften it, then adds in the sugar and the flour.

Together the two of them stand by the counter-top, quietly forming the dough into balls the size of a walnut, then pressing them into place on the baking tray. Each one gets a final gentle squish with a fork.

“S'why they’re called fork biscuits,” Greg explains to Mycroft, as his lover nuzzles closely in behind him, nosing at the back of his neck.

“Mm… I see.” Mycroft kisses his bare shoulder, splaying a hand on Greg’s lower stomach. As he does, Greg experiences a soft, strange thrill that by the time Monday morning rolls around, he wants Mycroft to have taken him from behind.

He wants to know what that’s like - and he wants it to be Mycroft who shows him.

As the biscuits are baking, Greg starts melting chocolate in a glass bowl.

“Chocolate-dipped fork biscuits?” Mycroft enquires, intrigued.

“Special occasions only,” Greg says, with a smirk. It blossoms into a grin as Mycroft’s arms wrap around him again, cosying close to his back as he stirs the glossy chocolate on the stove top, and Mycroft nuzzles into his hair.

Greg’s falling - he can feel it.

He’s falling fast.

This isn’t just sex. He knows what ‘just sex’ feels like, and it doesn’t feel like this. It doesn’t feel like weekends that last forever, or like cuddling up and watching films. It doesn’t feel like making biscuits together to bond after the first time you’ve come with him inside you, crying out his name.

As Greg tastes the mixture with a quick lick of his finger, Mycroft’s eyes flash with interest.

“Chocolate, huh?” Greg grins a little, testing some more. He lets his tongue linger over his fingertips this time.

“Rather more… you and chocolate,” Mycroft remarks, watching closely.

Greg’s heart thumps. They’ve literally just fucked, but this is still stirring his interest. They’re not going to survive until Monday, at this rate. “Yeah?” he says, and glances at the bowl. “How about… you and chocolate? Might be worth a try.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, just a fraction.

He dips two fingertips in the mixture.

Halfway to Greg’s mouth, a change of plan suddenly glitters in his eyes. Greg spots it the second it appears - that deep grey spark of mischief - and a grin spreads the width of his face at once.

Mycroft pauses, reading Greg's smile. They eye each other closely for a moment - gleaming, playful.

“Do it,” Greg says. “I dare you.”

Mycroft’s eyes glint.

As he goes to paint the stripe across Greg’s cheek, Greg dodges forward. Before Mycroft even sees him move, Greg daubs two fingers of chocolate directly along Mycroft’s nose, then darts backwards and flees. Mycroft lets out a bark of laughter, swipes his fingers through the bowl and gives chase.

The hunt finally ends in the lounge, lying amidst the pile of their clothing still left from the night before.

As Mycroft pins him to the floor, and slowly and decisively applies a generous stripe of chocolate the full length of his nose, Greg squirms and laughs and pretends to protest. His laughter rings throughout the apartment. Mycroft grins, flushed with victory, and holds him still until justice has been administered.

They then grin at each other, panting, covered in chocolate like messy kids, and Greg realises it’s only Saturday. They have two more nights of this. He’s suddenly so happy that he feels like he’ll never be anything else.

When Monday morning finally comes around, he’s still happy. He parks his car up at work, grins at everyone he passes on the stairs, then makes himself a coffee to have with his final two fork biscuits. They turned out perfectly. The half-chocolate coating makes him smile, and fills his entire chest with warmth.

By the time that he’s finished them, he has a text from his new boyfriend - asking how he is, and if he has any plans for the weekend.

Greg beams as he replies.

He does now.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Weekend Plans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14366808) by [Loolph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loolph/pseuds/Loolph)




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